A song of Coin and Lamellar
by von Adler
Summary: Two (eventually three) characters from another fantasy world ends up in Westeros and try to make the best of the situation, with their own culture, prejudices, arrogance, personalities knowledge and skills. Cross-posted from alternatehistory by me (von Adler), the author.
1. Chapter 1

**King's Landing, 287 AL.**

**Lysander.**

_"Power is freedom. Coin is portable power."_ _Equites_ Lysander Asimachos.

Damn. He had finally gone a bit too far. The wild-elf, or whatever that… thing _really_ was had done something to him. 'Begone!' the pointy-eared bastard had yelled. 'Bother some other world, some other people!' He had laughed, and suddenly the magic of the wild-elf had consumed him. He had regretted that last sarcastic comment, but then not. Finally, the sweet embrace of death and nothingness. Forgetfulness.

Except, he did not feel very dead. At all. He opened his dark green eyes, one at a time. This did not feel like any kind of afterlife he had heard of. And it certainly did not smell like that. Well, some tales of the afterlife for the wicked probably had this… smell. He stared at a dark stone wall. He was sitting on cobblestones that, seriously, were starting to hurt his bony behind.

"Who are you then?" he heard a rough voice saying, turning his head in that direction. A stocky, bald man with a wicked scar over his head and a strong smell of stale beer over him were coming closer.

Despite joints and especially his head protesting, he got up and stretched himself a little. The stocky man seemed less inclined to advance. Almost seven feet did help in these cases. The long, thin sword and the corresponding dagger at his hip were probably not in his disadvantage either.

"I am _Equites_ Lysander Asimachos, _Logothetes_ in service of His Imperial Highness _Kaisar_ Leonids of the House Toarias." he replied with a confident smile. Years of negotiations, threats and the constant game of cat and mouse that was the world of a good caretaker of his master's estates had taught him to control his face. And do it very well indeed.

"Oh, sorry Milord." the stocky man said, bent is neck a bit and continued walking, now rounding the thin and tall nobleman as if he had intended to do so the entire time. They both knew better, and both knew to not tempt fate by not pretending it was not so.

"Oh, no worries my good man. Even Lords have natural needs, you know."

The stocky man had laughed, a bit forced, but then left. Leaving him to his own devices.

The first question, where the absolute shit were he? He was very far from Langtrue, and from Karastovel, that was clear. He could not recognise the face of the almost full moon, nor the stars, searching in vain for familiar formations.

And this mother-fucking stench. This was obviously a large city that knew nothing of sewers. It probably did not even have a proper aqueduct. How everyone had not perish in disgusting epidemics already was way beyond him.

He stepped out on the street. It was nighttime, or something close to it. Some people were about, drunkards staggered from taverns – some of which seemed very inviting, with song and laughter streaming from glass windows lit by yellow light from oil lamps inside. He needed to take a a look at his situation, and he had always done his best thinking with a glass of wine in his hand. He weighed his options and stepped towards a tavern with a decently freshly painted sign with grapes on it. Surely they would have passable wine?

He stepped in and glanced at the crowd which looked mostly like middle class people. Skilled labourers and tradesmen, traders and the like. With a smattering of whores and serving wenches among them, if one was to judge them on their status of dress – or rather, undress in this case.

He produced a small but polite bow towards those that looked in his direction, which seemed enough for most of them, their eyes turning back towards the bard playing a simple lute but doing it well.

He found his way to an empty table, with a serving wench soon appearing to take his order. He smiled a bit, a toothy grin of pearly white teeth of a man that had grown up being able to afford healers specialised in bones and teeth, got up and to her obvious surprise took her hand to bring it to his mouth, letting one and a half inch of air remain between her skin and his lips, as was proper, all in a smooth but deep bow.

"Ah, young Miss. How fortunate. I am _Equites_ Asimachos and have recently arrived here. I am afraid my command of the language is far from perfect, could you perhaps help me?"

The girl blushed deeply and tried, unsuccessfully to stifle a giggle.

"Of course, Milord." she said with a heavy accent, placing a hand over her chest.

"I shall require to name of this place in your language. And a glass of fine white wine." he produced a silver coin. "It is not of the local currency, but silver is always silver, is it not?"

The girl blushed again. "You mean to tell me, Milord, that you know not King's Landing, the greatest city of Westeros?" she giggled, probably taking his question as a joke. He smiled to assure her while she took the coin to return with wine soon after.

This was troublesome. He had never heard of King's Landing, and never of Westeros either.

The bard finished playing, raised a tankard and cried out. "Hail Robert Baratheon, first of his name, King of the Seven Kingdoms!"

He partook in the cheer, without much enthusiasm. He had never heard of any seven kingdoms, nor a King Robert. This… was troublesome. He sipped the glass of wine the serving wench brought. Not too bad - he had tasted better, but this strange place at least had passable wine. If that had not been the case he would have considered the Wild-Elf most cruel.

As all proper Karastovlians knew, a disaster was just an excellent opportunity that needed some time to sort out.


	2. Chapter 2

**King's Landing, 287 AL.**

**Lysander**

"Keep your allies and friends close, but keep your enemies closer still. It will keep you on your toes, like a whetstone sharpens the blade, your enemy sharpens your mind." _Equites_ Lysander Asimachos

_Equites_ Lysander Asimachos.

Quietly he counted what he had with him. A good set of clothes – a woolen cloak, tight-fitting trousers, good long-shafted boots, a doublet armoured on the inside and a wide-brimmed barett. A shirt and smallclothes of linen and a couple of handkerchiefs of the same material . He carried a few of his own coins, and quite a bit of _Kaisar_'s. His Master would most likely forgive him for using them to get back – or improve his situation if that proved time-consuming. The money was an assortment of coins – 22 gold, 36 silver, 15 copper. All alien and strange to the people here, of course, but the serving wench had bit on his silver coin, been convinced it was silver and returned with wine and change in the local currency - copper coins with stars on them. Silver was always silver, regardless of where you were. He had his light sword and dagger,- long and thin like himself and of excellent quality (you never skimped on what kept you from death). a few throwing daggers under the doublet, his rucksack with letters, writing utensils, seals and ledgers with _Kaisar_'s bookkeeping – not that any of them would do him much good in this place - a shirt and smallclothes to change and his pipe and tobacco, fortunately.

This would last him in the immediate future, but he needed to do something to replenish his supply of coin by any means, and soon.

Deciding to ask questions, make money and potentially victims or future partners – depending on how the evening went, he joined a few games of dice. Feigning ignorance, he had the rules explained to him and then mostly controlled the game. Few know that with the proper touch, you can control how the dice will land – often enough to make the difference. Make sure that you lose regularly, call it all luck, curse when you lose, hide your winnings and buy the losers a drink and shake their hand, thanking them for introducing you to this 'new' game and few suspected and none acted on the cheating.

He made sure he only took a little from each loser and praised their friendly attitude and good sense. He laid it on pretty thick, but added some extra accent to his speech to make people think it not unnatural - people always forgave foreigners worse transgressions than kin - for ignorance was always a good excuse.

After most of the evening had passed, he was up 12 silver and 4 copper coins and had made several new friends. And he had learned much more of the place he was at. The stinking city was indeed called 'King's Landing' and had around half a million souls living in it! How they could have that many people living in one place without sewers, and aqueduct and public bathhouses (which he had been shocked to learn did not exist at all in this place!) was completely and utterly beyond him.

The Seven Kingdoms consisted of the Reach, the Iron Islands, the Westerlands, the Stormlands, the North, the Vale, the Riverlands and Dorne, plus the Crownlands directly ruled by the crown. The entire continent was controlled by a single political entity – although most parts had extensive autonomy, dealing their own justice, raising their own army – and more importantly, collecting their own taxes before sending a part to the crown. Since about four years this whole continent was ruled by King Robert of the House Baratheon (at least these people were civilised enough to organise themselves into Houses) after a grand rebellion by House Tully, House Stark, House Arryn and House Baratheon that was later joined by House Lannister. The whole thing was very interesting. He learned about the King's brothers, about his wife, the Lady Cersei, daughter to the Lord of the Westerlands, Tywin Lannister.

There was much to learn. And many things to do. He waved off a prostitute trying to lure him to spend his winnings – she was obviously more perceptive than the more or less drunk patrons of this inn. Then, as an afterthought, he held up a hand, causing her to pause her retreat.

"My apologies, my dear, I never asked your name." he said with his toothy smile.

"Reah." she answered with as much of a seductive smile she could muster. Which was quite a bit, he had to admit that. But the had a passion that stood above that of the flesh – at least for the moment.

"The pleasure is all mine, Miss Reah. But tell me, how much did I win tonight?" he held up a copper coin, a small reward for some information, and returned her seductive smile with a wolfish grin of his own and a wink in her direction.

"Around 15 silver stags. But you spent quite a bit on drinks for your newfound friends." she said and snatched the coin from his hand, surprisingly quick.

"Excellent, Miss Reah." he said with a laugh and produced another copper coin and tossed it to her, which she caught with a giggle that had only the smallest hint of being fake in it. Good girl. "That one is to keep quiet about it. I do not require your…" he looked her up and down "…services right now. But I may very well have some coin for you later – if you keep being as perceptive." with that he rose and bowed politely, which she responded to with a passable curtsy. That girl's talents could be honed to be wasted at an establishment such as this, he thought.

He returned to nurse his glass of white wine – which was passable, but barely, now that it was not as chilled anymore – when a sound seemed to invade his deep thoughts on his situation and what to do next. Heavy footsteps.

The door opened – it seems it had started to rain while he spent his time in here, for the heavy figure that stepped in shook off water from a large woollen cloak. He absent-mindedly watched the gesture, feeling like it should somehow remind him of something. Then the figure turned to him and he raised both eyebrows in surprise.

It was a soldier – that much was evident. Clad in heavy lamellar armour and a good steel helmet with a single red plume of horsehair hanging limply from the very top of the cone. The man was built like a brick larder – wide, deep and strong like few others. Slightly above five and a half feet, he was not among the tallest, but the fierce look more than compensated for it. Parallell deep, red and angry scars ran from his left eyebrow, parting it in three, down to the right corner of his mouth, breaking a nose that had not been especially beautiful before someone did a serious number to his face. A strong jaw, a penetrating gaze from brown eyes, bronze or olive-coloured skin and a short beard, dark black, completed the look of the man.

"_Equites_ Asimachos." the soldier said with a deep, gravely bass that seemed to cause the whole room to vibrate as the man approached the table, bowing stiffly to the sound of well-oiled lamellar plate moving against equally well-oiled lamellar plates.

"Captain Andreios!" he exclaimed. "What… I mean, how did you get here?"

"Same way as you, I suspect. I was just beyond the door when you quarreled with the Wild-Elf. He told me to 'bugger off' when I questioned him, and here I am." he said. The voice deep and steady as always.

"But how did you find me?" he said.

"Well, I started by assuming you ended up at the same place as me, so I searched the taverns." the soldier said matter-of-factly. Yes, he was a bit predictable that way.

"And you found me in a few hours? in a city of half a million?"

"No, I arrived three days ago." the soldier said and looked at the _Equites_. "Half a million, is it? You look younger." the Captain said, having the natural talent for pointing out things as he saw them.

He touched his skin and checked his hands. Yes. There was no mirror, but that seemed likely. He felt… younger. He checked the Captain. No grey in his beard. The wrinkles around the eyes nearly gone. "So do you." he said pragmatically. "If you arrived before me, and we both look younger, have the Wild-Elf sent us back in time as well as to this strange place?" the silence grew between them as they both pondered that.

"We best get a room and have a talk about what has happened." he finally said.

The Captain simply nodded. He knew the man would not have slept for the last three days - being diligent to the point of simple-mindedness was one of the Captain's premier traits, after all.


	3. Chapter 3

**King's Landing, 287 AL.**

**Lysander.**

_"Attach yourself to anyone with money. If they are good, you can learn and ride their success. If they are a fool, they and their money will soon go separate ways. It can be good to be the facilitator of that transfer of wealth." Equites_ Lysander Asimachos

A few coins and a polite conversation later they had a small room with two beds overlooking the street below. The Captain immediately removed his armour, inspected it for rust and other imperfections in a well-drilled routine and then placed it as well as he could at the foot of one of the bed and then immediately went to lie down.

"Hey, we were supposed to discuss the matter of this world and what to do." he said.

"You are the clever one. I am the soldier. You do the thinking." the Captain replied, placed his head on the pillow and immediately went to sleep, of course with a hand on the hilt of his shortsword as always. He watched the lightly snoring soldier and cursed. No use crying over spilled wine, was there? He started to pace back and forth, thinking. The Wild-Elf had sent them here, to what was either the other end of the world, or another world entirely. They both appeared younger, so most likely they had also been sent through time – which the different state of the moon supported, as well as the Captain arriving three days earlier than him, despite fighting with the Wild-Elf after himself. The moon being different was not valid if they had been sent to another world entirely. How would they get back? Could they get back? What was the state of magic here?

Pacing back and forth, not feeling tired – probably due to being younger, he used to be able to pull all-nighters all the time in his youth – he formulated a plan.

They would acquire money enough to live and protect themselves for years to come, while they researched a way to get back. It was possible that _Kaisar_ himself, or some of his other servants or relatives would corner the Wild-Elf in the search for them, and could end up here as well. If that happened they had to be prepared to receive them. Not all were as pragmatic as him or as uncaring as the Captain.

What if they never found a way back? Well, he would consider that once they were sure they could not find a way back. First things first. Acquire enough money. Money was always the key to everything else. Learn of the world. Start investigating ways to get back. If they managed it, beat the Wild-Elf black and blue.

It was time for a smoke and he stepped down the stairs, leaving the sleeping Captain in the room and walked out into the streets. It was starting to dawn, and people were around, milling in the streets going about their business. No-one seemed to care about the putrid stench that seemed to redouble in its attack on his poor (and, to be honest, too large) nostrils. He stuffed his chalk pipe with tobacco (some of the last in his pouch, he needed to acquire some more) and lit it with some flint and steel – no need to attract attention doing it the usual way. He seemed to attract attention anyway, especially when blowing a ring of smoke. Thinking of it, he had not seen anyone smoke last night. Perhaps it was uncommon, or even forbidden in these parts? Maybe that was why people were looking.

He stopped a man exiting the inn.

"My apologies, Master. I am a humble foreigner and a guest in your great city." It took some lying to call the city great. Sure, it was large, but great? With this stench and no sewers, no aqueduct and it seemed no Green Faction maintaining streets, public baths, public toilets and springwells. "I was wondering if you might enlighten me on where to buy tobacco?"

He got a strange look back. "Taback-oh?"

"Brown leaves, cut in small strips, that you light to a smolder and inhale the smoke?" he tried, desperately.

"Never heard of anything like it. I have heard of some inhaling fumes of the milk of the poppy to get drunk beyond what wine or ale can provide. Why would anyone want to inhale smoke?" he laughed and got on his way.

_Equites_ Lysander Asimachos remained frozen in place. DAMN THAT WILD-ELF! Of course he had sent him to a world that had no tobacco. He had just smoked his last pipe for a long, long time, and he had not even savoured it. Damn and twice-damn.

His self-pity and desperate despair was only broken by some commotion further down the street. Two riders seemed surrounded by many men, women and children on foot.

"Ser Homar Bluewater!" the crowd seemed to cheer for the rider, dressed in elaborate armour with a tunic with some kind of heraldic symbol popular with the knights of the feudal societies north of the old Empire and the Cracked Desert. The rider, evidently a knight, with a single dour retainer on the other horse, waved at the crowd with a smile, especially wide for some young girls who giggled and blushed. The age-old truths of courtship and young love did not seem different in this world compared to his own, at least.

"Will you participate in the melee? In the jousts, Ser Homar?" one of the girls asked.

"Participate? I intend to win them!" the knight boomed back. "Maybe I will crown you the Queen of Love and Beauty then, if you are in the stands to watch me?" he said, winking at the girl who blushed deeply, but did not seem that unhappy at all. Quite the opposite.

The two riders urged their horses onwards, and the small crowd parted to allow them to pass.

"So there's a tournament?" he asked one of the bystanders, with a gesture in the general direction of the quickly disappearing riders.

"Yes, King Robert is throwing one in celebration of the start of his fifth year of rule!"

"Interesting. I assume there are prices?" he said with a broad smile.

"Oh yes! One hundred thousand gold dragons!" the small crowd cheered. "There'll be wine and bread, music and games, jugglers and riddlers, mummers and fools!" the crowd chattered excitedly about all the things that would come to pass.

He raised an eyebrow quite a bit. One hundred thousand gold dragons? He thanked the burgher and went back inside.

"Captain Andreios!" he said out loud, and the Captain immediately sat up in bed, blinked and looked at him.

"You carry payment for _Kaisar_'s Condottieri?"

"Four hundred _stavraton_." the Captain confirmed.

"Excellent. I'll make us some money." he said, took the bag of silver coins from where it lay on the floor, next to the armour the Captain had shedded earlier.

The Captain continued to look at him silently, obviously expecting a further explanation.

"There's a tournament. You'll enter the melee. I'll bet on you. With the prize money and the winnings we have a good starting position." he said with a wolfish smile.

The Captain scowled, but placed steady feet on the floor and got up to don his armour without looking and the air of a man who did something he had done thousands of times before. "You know what I think of such spectacles."

"Yes, I know. But think of it as training. We do need a good sum of money."

The Captain glared at him for a while and then shrugged his wide, powerful shoulders. Very well.

**King's Landing, 287 AL.**

**Alexios.**

_"A soldier's trade is violence. Anything that dilutes that – formality, honour, style, taunting, revenge – is folly. Gloat and monologue at the dead body of your enemy, not to his living face."_ Captain Alexios Andreios.

The crowd, and it was an immense such, was mostly silently watching. Partially because they were fascinated, partially because things were getting, if not boring, then at least repetitive. The sun was hanging low in the sky, and the day had been long and hot in the sand of the huge arena.

The melee was part of the first day of the tournament, and had started interestingly enough. A foreigner in strange but obviously well-made armour had surprised most. He wore no heraldry and claimed to be a sell-sword sworn to a liege lord – a paradox if any – to the far east. Most expected a mere mercenary to be quickly defeated, bu the had somehow clinged to the victorious side in each matchup, and was now in the finals, despite a much derided lack of swordsmanship, and using a wooden shortsword.

In the royal box, the Queen looked frightfully bored, while the King was getting increasingly drunk.

"What do you make of this foreigner, Ser Barristan?" the King yelled for his trusted Kingsguard.

"He's obviously a veteran soldier, Your Grace." Barristan replied.

"I can see that, Barristan." the King said, impatiently. "Your analysis. Who will win?"

Ser Barristan squinted, looking over the field.

"If I was a gambling man, I would put my money on the foreigner, Your Grace." he said.

"What?" the King exlaimed. "You think he will beat the Mountain? Why?"

"Well…" Ser Barristan started, thinking how to put it. "He was obviously superior in all the team battles. He's an experienced commander, and the shield walls he formed made his team the winner in each bout. He is used to commanding, and it can be seen on him, and heard in his voice. I can think of no other way he got hedge knights and lordlings alike to follow his command."

"True." the King answered and held his cup out for it to be refilled with barely watered wine. "But against the Mountain?"

"He's obviously outmatched, in skill, weight and reach." Ser Barristan Selmy confirmed the King's suspicion. "But as you can see, he's not letting Ser Gregor get to him. And he's using his size and temper against him."

And that was indeed how it was. The foreigner was running like a rabbit. In the beginning, it had caused the Mountain to laugh and the crowd to jeer and boo the coward. But after half an hour, the tune had changed. The Mountain charged, but the foreigner remained out of reach of the huge blunted greatsword, picking up pebbles and small stones from the ground and skillfully – and as far as Ser Barristan could see, with quite the throwing arm – pelted the Mountain's face with them. Ser Gregor Clegane's upper lip was split, and he was bleeding over his teeth. Ser Barristan suspected one of them was loose. One of his eyes was swollen shut and his lower lip as big as the Queen's bosom. His nose was angry red and a few cuts on his eyebrows were also bleeding.

"How long can he keep it up? Its been hours already." the King asked. Ser Barristan peered down at the field where the foreigner backtracked out of a wild swing with the greatsword from the Mountain and a metallic ring told of a small pebble hitting the rim of Ser Gregor's helmet. He suspected that Ser Gregor regretted his decision to wear an open-faced helmet for the melee, but that was normal armour for the melee, where a good field of vision was more important than protecting the whole face as most of the bouts were of teams against teams. Some of the crowd laughed as the Mountain, cursing about cheating and cowardice and yelling for the foreigner to stand and fight him like a man, swinged wildly again.

"The foreigner is sweating quite a bit, Your Grace. But I suspect he's used to things like this and wearing that armour of his in a hot climate." his complexion reminded him of the Dornish. "I think he could go on all day."

The King laughed. "And the Mountain?"

"About to drop, Your Grace." Ser Barristan said with a hint of a smile.

Ser Barristan 'the Bold' Selmy was indeed right. The Mountain swung wildly one more time, slipped in the sand and dropped to one knee. In an instant the foreigner was upon him and swung his small wooden sword to hit the much larger man in the face.

"Ser Gregor Clegane OUT!" the umpire called as the Mountain spat blood and collapsed. The foreigner removed his helmet and pulled back his coif, revealing a dark mop of sweat-damp shortcut hair. As he got closer to the stand ladies could be heard gasping over the disfiguring scars of his face. He bowed politely, first to the royal box and the King and Queen, the to the stands that the crowd occupied, once on each side of the crowd. He seemed to watch the King for a moment too long before straightening his back again.

The umpire seemed to have to check his list to get the name and title of the winner – no-one had expected any other winner than the Mountain.

"Your Grace, the winner of the melee of your tournament, Captain Alexios Andreios from the Empire of Karastovel!"

The Captain bowed again to the cheer of the crowd, while an exhausted Mountain was helped on his feet by his retainers, spitting blood and cursing.

"Your methods are unorthodox, Andreios." the King said.

"A soldier uses methods that are effective." he replied with a smile that the stiff scars turned into a mix between a smile and a grimace.

The King laughed at that reply, and with a leaf wreath upon his head the Captain marched off, waving to the crowd. He noticed a smiling _Equites_ at one of the top stands and several rather pale men around him. Odds-makers and bookmakers, he suspected.

A good days exercise and a job well done. It was time for a bath and some care for his armour. He had taken one or two hits in the earlier bouts.


	4. Chapter 4

**King's Landing, 287 AL.**

**Lysander.**

_"Coin do not smell. Coin do not remember. Acquired by honest or dishonest means, they still carry the same value." Equites_ Lysander Asimachos.

There were many questions during that night's festivities. About himself, about the Captain, about his fighting style, about his scars and many other things. He answered them as well and as truthfully as he could. It was always best to lie as close to the truth as possible – it made it much easier to remember what you had lied about and to whom.

'Ah, we are from the Empire of Karastovel, a whole world away. No, we are not official representatives in that sense, _Kaisar_ is the Crown Prince of a small realm, and he wishes to know more of the world. We are to serve his interests here. He is too far away to travel here himself, I'm afraid. You'll have to ask Captain Andreios himself on his scars. I am not a warrior, Ser, you should ask the Captain himself on his way of fighting.' and so on.

Taking a short break from socialising, mostly to answer nature's call over by the privies, he felt a tap on his shoulder. Tucking certain objects in properly before he turned around he met the just a bit too close gaze of a man with dark eyes, a man that was about as tall as himself and substantially more well-built and the face of a man that had spent the better part of a decade brawling in the streets. Scars, half an ear gone, a broken brow bone. He was slowly patting his open left hand with a short cudgel. So he smiled.

"May I help you?" he said.

"You cheated." the man said.

"Cheated?" he replied, feigning ignorance, although he had a very good idea was this was all about.

"Cheated." the other man repeated. "You will not collect any winnings. Is that clear?" the brute said threateningly, taking a step closer despite being far too close for comfort already. The man opened his mouth to say something more, but did not produce a sound, instead suddenly turning very pale.

Taking a step closer had pressed the point of his dagger through the coarse fabric of the man's trousers and nicked the base of his member just a tiny bit. Just a little, little pressure, and he would never know the joys of fatherhood. Or ever peeing properly again.

"I am afraid there's some kind of misunderstanding." he said with an oily smile that could perhaps been interpreted as friendly by a passerby - but they both knew better. "I am certain you were looking for someone else." he continued, nodding an encouragement for the now very pale man.

"In fact, you probably saw the man you were supposed to talk to just now, did you not?" he said with the oily smile now turned into a decidedly predatory grin.

The man drew a trembling breath, took a half step back and nodded furiously. "O-of course! My apologies, milord!" he stammered and quickly escaped, both hands firmly on his crotch while running away.

He inspected the tiny drop of blood on the point of his dagger, produced a handkerchief to wipe it off before putting the sharp and thin weapon with its basket-like hilt in decorated bronze back into its short scabbard. "Amateurs!" he exclaimed with a shake of his head, and returned to the festivities with a smile, where the Captain seemed to have been engaged in a conversation with the King, some of his white-cloaked Guardsmen and some of the Lords of this Realm.

**King's Landing, 287 AL.**

**Alexios.**

_"Discipline set the soldier apart from the warrior."_ Captain Alexios Andreios.

He did not really like festivities. Normally, he would be standing guard at _Kaisar_'s feasts, announcing guests with his booming dark bass, but now he was one of the guests, and supposedly one of the more honoured ones, despite being a commoner. He was dressed in his finest parade equipment, of course. A crimson red silk mantle over a polished lamellar cuirass, with chalk-white silk short trousers and a similarly coloured short-sleeved tunic under the armour. He carried his helmet under his muscular, hairy arm, with the single red plume at the top of the conical steel contraption hanging limply as always. Oiled sandals, newly cut hair and beard and even a faint smell of perfumed oils in his hair made for a striking, if very foreign, appearance. Of course he wore his shortsword and dagger at the belt as always. The simple steel weapons with leather-wound steel hilts contrasted starkly against the finery he wore. They were tools in his bloody profession, not gilded accessories to perfumed silk and velvet clothing.

He had seen the eyes made by quite a few of the young ladies present, all certainly hoping for him to ask them to the dance that was about to start. One or two of the braver ones engaged him in a conversation – one that was rather short. Polite, but short, and they soon left, disappointed with his lack of engagement in the attempted conversation. It seemed like this place valued martial skill almost as much as beauty, and his scars were not as disfiguring as his status as the winner of the melee added to his – to be honest – more than questionable charm. It was interesting, but ultimately futile. He talked of war and learned much of the recent Robert's Rebellion, where the current King had usurped to previous dynasty headed by the Mad King Aerys II. This place really did not differ much from his homeland. Although the stories of the Mad King's ancestors conquering the Seven Kingdoms and uniting the continent using dragons were surely just myths?

"Captain Andreios?" the older white-cloaked Guard of the King approached him. He bowed politely. "Ser Barristan." he had learned the name, and had also learned that he was one of the best swordsmen of the realm and considered one of the most honourable and skilled warriors of all time, earning the byname 'the Bold'.

"If you please, the King requests your presence." said the older knight with a smile and a bow in reply to that of the Captain.

When a King called, you came. Even if it was strictly not your King. "We shall not keep him waiting then." the Captain replied with a smile that the scars turned into a scowl. The knight seemed to understand the intent behind the face though, and led him to the royal couple. The Queen looked annoyed and quite bored, while the King himself was roaring drunk. Another thing that differed little between his own world and this one, it seemed.

"Ah, our champion of the melee!" the King yelled out as he approached and got down on one knee in a deep bow.

"Your Royal Majesty." he replied, earning him puzzled looks from the various people jockeying for a position close to the portable throne under the royal canopy.

"Is that how you address a King?" the King said with his booming voice. Being drunk it seemed, put him in a good mood. Ser Barristan took a step closer and whispered in his ear. "We usually address the King as 'Your Grace' here." The Captain nodded, grateful for the knight's effort.

"I address my Emperor as 'Your Imperial Majesty' and his son, heir and crown prince, the _Kaisar_, my Master, as 'Your Imperial Highness', Your Grace. I am unfamiliar with your customs. My apologies." he said. The King laughed loudly and called for more wine, for himself and for the champion in front of him. The Queen had actually looked up at the titles, with a small smile for him. It looked like she liked the idea of 'Majesty' and 'Highness'. The Captain suppressed a grimace, took the offered cup of wine and partook in the toasts to the champion of the melee, the _Kaisar_ and the King of the Seven Kingdoms. Hopefully, no-one noticed that he only put the cup to his lips and did not drink anything.

"So, tell me, Andreios, who was your first?" the King said after emptying his goblet.

"My first, Your Grace?" he replied, resisting his habit of running two fingers down his scars when he was confused.

"Your first kill, of course." the King boomed.

"Ah. His name was Petrios. He was, I think, nine. I was six or seven. He attacked me with a knife from the kitchen." he put up his arm and pointed to a pale old scar running almost from the wrist to the elbow. "So I drowned him in the bathtub." he said with a shrug.

Things were suddenly silent. The story of children murdering children did not seem to fall on fertile soil, until the King spoke.

"By the Seven, Andreios, they start you off early in your lands, don't they?" he said with a roar of a laughter, evidently finding his own joke hilarious. His sycophants soon joined in and the festive spirit returned. Few if any heard his reply of "The orphanage where I grew up was a bit… rough." He bowed deeply for the King, who graciously nodded his permission for the champion to leave his presence, and was escorted back to his corner by Ser Barristan.

They conversed a bit on the King and their meeting, with the knight assuring him it went as well as could be hoped and he thanked him for the whispered words on how to address the King.

"You will not dance, Captain Andreios?" Ser Barristan said, eyeing the line of young ladies waiting for an invitation - some of which still seemed to harbour futile hopes.

"I don't dance very well, Ser Barristan." he replied with a light smile that the scars could not ruin completely.

"It seems like you could have your pick of lovely young ladies tonight, Captain." the older knight continued with a smile and another glance towards the chattering ladies, many of which were still throwing glances their way.

"Ah, I am afraid I will have to make them disappointed. My preferences lies elsewhere." the Captain said with a smile.

The face of the white-cloaked knight turned from a friendly smile to a forced neutral. "Young boys?" he asked.

"Oh no!" the Captain replied with a wide smile not even the stiff scars could turn into a scowl. "I prefer men. Real men with experience on the battlefield, with hair on their chests and faces, strong arms and backs." he laughed and gave the knight a knowing look. "Interested?"

It was not often that Ser Barristan 'the Bold' Selmy was speechless, and even rarer that he blushed. But now that was the case, in both instances.

"Erm, I think not." he finally managed to sputter out.

The Captain smiled, and bowed a short but polite bow to the knight. "That is a shame. Should you ever change your mind, or simply become curious, find me, and I will show you why true passion and true satisfaction is only possible between men."

With that he left to stand in his corner, laving the flustered knight to return to his duties.


	5. Chapter 5

**King's Landing, 287 AL.**

**Alexios.**

_"A cup of sweat today saves a bucket of blood tomorrow. A bruise today saves a chopped-off limb tomorrow."_ Captain Alexios Andreios.

He had been talking, and above all, listening on the second day of the tournament. Many asked if he would take part in the jousts or the archery contests, which he denied. He was not a lancer, and average at best as an archer. He had been convinced to show off his skill with his javelins outside the tournament. Hitting and penetrating an oak board about two feet wide and high and an inch thick at sixty paces seemed to impress many of those who watched. And he had not shown the lighter javelins and the sling he used with them. There was no need to let anyone see all your abilities.

He had talked to Ser Barristan again, politely avoiding mentioning the failed proposition the night before. The old knight had avoided that subject as well, but had much to tell about the Ninepenny war, about Robert's Rebellion and the Battle of Ruby Ford. Ser Barristan had also been able to direct him to several veterans and even some commanders of those conflicts who were glad to tell the stories. He even got a few minutes from the King himself, only a bit tipsy, telling how he slew the Crown Prince at the Battle of Ruby Ford. Being the champion of the melee had obviously opened quite a few doors, he had to admit that.

The _Equites_ was hard at work turning several coins into many more coins. As usual.

"Ah, Captain Andreios." he said as the Captain walked into the room at the inn they were still staying at. They would probably need to move sooner rather than later - the room would not be enough for long.

"_Equites._" he replied, serving himself some of the water the long and thin man had at the table he was working on, but passing on the wine, as usual.

"I trust your research has gone well?" the other man continued.

"As well as could be hoped for, I suppose." he replied.

The _Equites_ put down his quill, looked up and grabbed his wine glass in one smooth move. "Do tell." he said with a smile and reclined a bit in the chair, brandishing his cat-like ability to make the hard wooden chair look extremely comfortable.

He drank the water, set the mug down and started pacing back and forth in front of the table. It always helped him collect his thoughts and form the correct sentences when he needed to say more than a barked order.

"I don't think there's a single soldier among these people!" he finally exclaimed.

The _Equites_ looked surprised, but said nothing. A clear sign for him to go on.

"Oh, they are a martial people. Prowess with arms is the finest ability a man can have. They are superb swordsmen, skilled lancers, excellent cavalrymen." he said, continuing to pace back and forth. "But they don't train to make war. They train to duel. To fight single combat with swords or joust equally fairly man against man with lances!" he was getting a bit upset now. It was just so frustrating. So much skill, so little sense. So much training on such useless things.

"Their idea of war is a duel on a grand scale. They raise feudal levies they barely equip and never train at all, unless they have some time before marching off to war. They are so stuck up about noble blood that regardless how much of a twit the respective Lord is, he will still raise and lead his feudal levy!" he was actually waving his arms now. The Equites wisely chose to remain silent and listen rather than to try to interrupt. "During Robert's Rebellion, the war to usurp the throne for the current King, Robert Baratheon, Lord Paramount Mace Tyrell of the Reach led some 60 000 men to lay siege to the castle of Storm's End." the Equites did raise an eyebrow at that number. It was an impressive host. Even the Karastovlian Empire at its peak, before the great shattering, had rarely been able to field that many men in a single field army. "The castle held a garrison of less than a 1 000, probably around 500." the Captain continued. "Yet Lord Paramount Tyrell sat on his arse outside the castle with his entire force, while the war was being decided elsewhere."

Even the Equites had to facepalm at that.

"When the levies meet, the lords lead from the front and the battle usually lasts until the commander of one or both hosts are dead. There's no overall command, no real reserves, no attempts at battlefield manouvre. Just a mass of men pushing against each other until one side can hack their way through enough of the personal bodyguard of the enemy commander and slay him. Then they put his head on a pike and show the battlefield. The losing side then promptly routs." the Captain continued, shaking his head.

"They seem to have no concept of a general staff. Their idea of manouvre warfare is to rape, loot, burn and pillage the countryside. Formation warfare is almost unheard of. They build enormous castles - you have seen the Red Keep here in King's Landing - yet seem to have little understanding of siege warfare, taking castles and towns through subterfuge or simply waiting until the defenders starve. They do not seem to use artillery at all in the field." he finally stopped ranting and the _Equites_ looked up at him.

"Your summary?" the tall and thin man said with a smile.

"Give me enough gold, and I can build a force that can turn the tide of any battle when properly applied." he stated with his usual confidence.

The _Equites_ nodded. He knew that 'protecting us, our interests and anyone else that the Wild-Elf might find suitable to sent here' was included in that.

"I'm working on it. We'll have to start small, we don't want to attract too much attention." he said, bowed down and picked up a leather bag heavy with gold coin and placed it in the Captains arms with a grunt. A part of the prize and bets winnings of the melee yesterday. "Find us a suitable quarter where you can keep men and I can have a decent office and start recruiting."

"Very well, _Equites_." the Captain replied. "Oh, I almost forgot." he said with a grin that the stiff scars were turning into a bloodthirsty grimace. "There were five men waiting for you outside in the alley. I killed four and let the last one go to tell the story." he knowingly rattled the rucksack he was wearing over a shouler. Daggers, goedendags and a spiked club rattled against each other. "I'll sell them when I find someone to make us lamellar and proper weapons."

With those words he marched out, not waiting for a response.

"My, it is almost like back home!" the_ Equites_ said, with a chucke and picked up his quill again to note the gold given the Captain in his bookkeeping.


	6. Chapter 6

**King's Landing, 287 AL.**

**Lysander.**

_"Running the very long game is to most observers indistinguishable from being a good person. Use it to your advantage." Equites_ Lysander Asimachos.

The Captain had found them a good house in the central parts of the city, in the western parts of what was commonly referred to as 'Fleabottom'. Since winds were for the most part west winds, it spared them the worst of the ranchid stench of the lower class areas, while still making the quarters cheap due to their location. They provided their own security, after all, so no need to worry about theft. On the upper floor he had a bedroom, an office that also served as filing room as well as more lavishly decorated meeting room to recieve potential business partners. There were also three more rooms that were currently unused, but another office and bedroom for a clerk to help him keep track of the rapidly expanding business would probably be the best way to use them. He just needed to find someone good with numbers and business who he could trust to not mess things up or steal too much (or be too obvious about it). All bookkeepers stole. The difference between a good and a bad bookkeeper was how much they stole, and how discreet they were about it. A good bookkeeper knew that stealing a little every month would add up to far more than stealing a huge sum once and having to run (in the best case, being hung or having your throat cut was always an option).

A young boy entered, fidgeted nervously and finally placed a stack of documents on the table.

"The reports you asked for, Equites." he said quietly.

"Thankyou, Thomas." he said with a smile, took his wine glass and took a small sip of the watered white wine from the Arbour and then continued. "Do your numbers exercise. When you are done, we will join the Captain for supper. After that, you can go home for the day." he said, with a gesture to the wax-covered wooden tablet and documents in the corner where his young protegé had his workplace.

"Yes, _Equites_." the boy said. He had a good head for numbers, but lacked the ambition needed to become a very good _logothetes_. That could change – the lad was only 11, after all – but for now he could not see him becoming more than a clerk to aid them. He was the third son of a parchment and papyrus maker and seemed eager to learn a trade he could hopefully support himself and eventually a family on. As per _Kaisar_'s usual policy, he was well paid (for a young apprentice, of course). Never give your own servants a reason to hold a grudge against you. You will have plenty of enemies anyway.

Speaking of enemies, it seemed like the commander of the city watch, the Goldcloaks, one Janos Slynt was again pushing for a meeting. He sighed, sifted through some notes and a few letters and then grabbed the quill to write a quick reply.

_'To the honourable commander of the Goldcloaks, Janos Slynt, from the Logothetes of his Imperial Highness Kaisar Leonides of the House Toarias, Equites Lysander Asimachos._

_'We have recieved your request for a meeting, and are much honoured to recieve you. We ask only for some time to prepare our new residence for such a distinguished guest and would like to extend a cordial invitation for supper in two weeks time. Should this arrangement please you, we will be honoured to recieve you._

_With the outmost respect and most friendly regards,_

_Equites Lysander Asimachos'_

He sanded the parchment, put some sealing wax at the bottom and pressed _Kaisar_'s seal on it, showing two eagles back to back with claws extended outwards to the right and left. He would send it with Thomas tomorrow. Back to more important work.

It seemed like the opium den was doing well, already having a respectable set of repeat customers. Heh, repeat with opium was almost guaranteed. Serving expensive luxuries, fine wine and mead and offering the services of high-class 'entertainers', mostly female but also some young men and of course opium made quite the profit. The establishment seemed to have become all the rage with the more decadent young noblemen on grand tours or foreign merchants visiting. He noted down to ask the two failed Maester brothers to produce more opium, then crossed over the word and wrote 'milk of the poppy' instead.

The distillery was coming to full production. Brandy from fine wine,_ tsiporo_ from the leftovers of winemaking - that the peasants had used as fertilizer before, so it was dirt (heh) cheap – and simple strong spirits from rye to clean wounds and sell to the more desperate parts of the proletariat. Of course he sent one of the first bottles of fine brandy produced (it was raw due to no oak barrel storage, but still decent) to the King as a gift – one that had been appreciated, as far as he knew, as the order for more bottles had come switfly, along with more than enough gold to pay for it. And what the King drank, all the noblemen had to drink. Profits were good.

He had bought out a few inns to make them into places to serve what the distillery made, and had managed to acquire the tax farming rights of a wine estate in the southern Crownlands to produce their own raw materials. If you could, you should always control the entire process – to make sure the profit of all steps was yours to have, but also to ensure quality and deny your eventual enemies the ability to buy your supply out. He needed to travel there, talk to the serfs and set up a share cropping scheme that would have them work hard for their own profit as well as his. Mostly his, of course, but still, if you could, you should always make sure other won when you won. That kept them loyal, hardworking and eager for you to keep winning.

He also had a thousand of other little projects, but now Thomas was done with his numbers. He corrected a few of them, but praised the lad nevertheless. He did a little better every day and soon he would be acceptable at Thiesmarian double entry bookkeeping.

They descended the stairs to the realm of the Captain to have supper. They found the soldier in the kitchen, closely watching one of his recruits stirring a pot of stew.

"An army marches on its stomach, Recruit Gregson. All Condottieri in the service of the Kaisar shall know how to make a good meal or fail." the Captain said to the recruit who was brandishing a red cheek from a rough slap from the Captain for daring to question doing 'womanly' things. You did not question the Captain without very, very good reasons. "Now, a little more salt, stir and bring the bowls." the Captain said, with the recruit nodding and doing as he was told, knowing that more violence was the result of any kind of refusals. The silver weekly suddenly seemed a little less generous than it had previously.

Around them there were recruits at work with the tasks of Kaisar's Condottieri. Laundry, cleaning the huge circular bathtub, heating water for the washing of hands and faces before supper.

"The army that keeps clean, keeps the camp fever away. Do you wish for your last breath to be that of a scarred veteran, surrounded by grandchildren eager for your tales of glory or for it to be pale and pantsless, covered in diarrhea or to be a wheezing and fever-shiver under a tent canvas?" he said, rhetorically, and the recruits answered as one man "The first one, Captain!"

The Captain beamed a smile not even the stiff scars could destroy and banged the table so that the newly placed earthenware bowls rattled. "Good! Now, come eat your fill of mutton stew with garlic and cabbage." the recruits cheered and quickly filed up to sit down at the benches, with the Captain taking one short and the Equites the other, while recruit Gregson struggled to carry the large cauldron to the table.


	7. Chapter 7

**King's Landing, 287 AL.**

**Alexios.**

"If your enemy cry about honour, fighting them like a real man or your supposed cowardice, continue what you are doing. It is because you are winning, and they don't like either losing or having to adapt." Captain Alexios Andreios.

The house had been a coach and wagon repair shop and the large spaces on the lower floor under arched stone and brick roofs suited the Captain and his recruits well. The garden at the back was also good for verious exercises, such as setting up camp after two or three full days without sleep. One of the two forges had been converted to a kitchen, while the other served to repair the equipment of the recruits.

The dozen or so recruits were mostly young men from a commoner background. He made clear that the position paid well, but also required tolerating very, very hard training and even harsher discipline. He had to fire two men who had an attitude and would not cease even after a good beating or two. Another had proven to have run from a crime. He did not oppose taking in criminals, but as was as usual garnishing most of the rapist's wages and paid them in restitution to the victim and her family.

Training was going well and after a lengthy session of a reverse tug-of-war, where they split in two teams and made two shield walls and tried to break through or push over the other side they had taken a common bath, shared stories, eaten well and then it was time for the week's pay and then the men's night and following day off. A bit more than six weeks had passed since he and the Equites had found themselves in this place, and he was finding his routine quite well. He sat at the simple table with coins stacked up and gave each man his due as they came up from the line. The men, except the two on guard duty left to drink or visit their parents (he did not recruit married men if he could avoid it) and he sat down with some leather straps and a bag of newly made steel lamellar plates to make a new cuirass for one of the lads who was still growing, and had added quite a bit of girth around his chest from the physical training and large amounts of food with lots of beans, peas and meat.

"Someone to see you, Captain." one of the guards said and he looked up from his work.

"Send him in." he replied. The guard nodded. It was usually someone trying to get to the Equites through him – with business offers, requests for loans or charity, sometimes someone selling something or someone wanting him to take care of a crime or extract vengeance. He usually rebuffed them.

The young man who entered was already taller than himself, and almost as wide. He wore his hair long to hide disfiguring scars on the side of his face. He seemed well fed – of course, it was rare for the lower class to grow that large with less meat and dairy and the frequent disease and malnourishment to stunt your growth – and strong.

"Your business?" he asked, letting any facade of politeness and concern fall.

"I heard you beat my brother. Messed up his face with pebbles." the young man said.

"And now you are here for revenge?" the Captain asked back. That was unfortunately not common, but families tended to learn after losing two or three sons.

"No." the large young man replied.

"Then why are you here?" the Captain looked at the young man – or youth, rather, his patience wearing a bit thin. Two men of few words seemed to be a bad mix when you wanted to get things done and away with.

"I heard you were recruiting." the youngster finally said.

The Captain nodded. Interesting. "I am. Do you think you can pass my tests?"

The young man shrugged. "I'd like to try." The Captain smiled a grin that his stiff scars turned into a bloodthirsty grimace. The young man met the gaze of the man, and did not waver. The grimace made the las feel equally afraid and excited for what might come. There had been stories. Numerous stories. The lad had no idea how many of them were true.

"Your name?" he asked.

"Sandor Clegane." he replied, still meeting the strong brown-eyed gaze of the older soldier.

"Very well, Aspirant Clegane." the Captain said, put down the steel lamellar plates at the table and rose. "We start immediately." A man with a last name was usually a Lord, or his family, and this man was evidently, or at least claimed to be, the brother of Ser Gregor Clegane, the Mountain. Lordlings did usually not take well to unlearning their duellist ways nor to taking orders without question, and he had already failed one or two that tried to become recruits.

The young man nodded.

"First of all, we cut your hair. _Kaisar_'s Condottieri will not have hair or beard long enough to be grabbed in combat. It could be a disadvantage that kills you."

The younger man did not look to happy, but eventually nodded and sat down on a chair the Captain placed on the middle of the floor and pointed at. Producing a sharp pair of scissors the Captain quickly snipped the young man's hair short.

"You wore it long to hide your scars?" he asked.

"Yes." the young man replied.

"Why?" he asked as he finished the haircut.

"They're ugly." the young man said with a shrug. The Captain walked around him and with a hand signalled him to rise. Then he drew two fingers over his own scars in the face.

"Wear your scars with pride, Aspirant Clegane. Someone tried to kill or break you. Are you dead? Are you broken?"

"I am alive. But I don't think I am whole." the young man's shoulders slumped.

"Do you fear and obey the one who did it to you?" the Captain asked.

"I hate him." there was fire in the dark eyes of Aspirant Clegane now.

"Good. You are not broken. Let your hate burn, draw strength from it. Stand straight and tall with your scars. Let them be yours. Did you break, Aspirant Clegane?" he said, raising his voice.

"No!" the young man replied back, and straightened his back and squared his shoulders.

"That is, 'No, Captain!' to you, Aspirant." he bellowed.

"No, Captain!" the young man replied, equally loud.

"You're quick. Good. Now, we'll find you some equipment, then we'll go for a little run." he said with a predatory smile. The young man was not sure wether or not the scars in the Captains face was responsible for that smile being predatory.

He grabbed a torch and lit it in the still smoldering forge and brought it up close to their faces as they walked towards the heavy door of the storage. As the toch came close to Aspirant Clegane, he flinched.

He eyed the young man a bit, stopped and brought the torch close again. The Aspirant flinched again.

"Are you afraid of fire, Aspirant Clegane?"

The young man clenched his teeth, but did not reply. So he brought the torch close again and the Aspirant flinched again.

"Fear lives in all of us." he said with a dark tone and opened the door, shoving the young man in front of him. "Discipline overcomes fear, but it must be learned. We fix this. Now." he said, closing the heavy door behind them.

Up on the second floor, _Equites_ Lysander Asimachos was at work, writing a letter when the stone walls of the entire building trembled as a muffled roar could be heard from down below. He rolled his eyes a bit and sighed, and went back to work. 'Andreios and his methods.' He thought as it was repeated.


	8. Chapter 8

**The Crownlands, 288 AL.**

**Lysander.**

"Never underestimate how hard people will work if they think they can gain from it. Nor their endless creativity to avoid work if they gain nothing." **Equites** Lysander Asimachos.

The wine estate was a good one. Rocky ground on a southward slope on a long ridge, with orderly rows of decently well-maintained wine stocks. Well-trodden paths trafficed by mules and peasants alike. A village of the usual thatched roof huts made from sun-dried mud, dung and hay over braided poles on a wooden frame. Peasant dwellings seemed to look the same in this world and his own. The wine stocks could have been cut more often and better, the baskets maintained better or replaced more often and the presses repaired. But in general, it was fertile ground, as the steward of the Lord he had purchased the tax rights from had assured him. The earlier tax farmer had done a decent job, he had been told, delivering the worth of some 90 barrels of wine per harvest. Which probably meant that the estate produced around 100.

He was standing atop of a an empty wine barrel placed in the small square in the tiny village, and all the serfs had gathered to listen to what he had to say.

The villagers eyed him with some suspicion. He suspected the earlier tax farmer had pressed (heh) quite a bit extra from the serfs, but he had been the demon they knew and could deal with. He was new and unknown and they were wary of what this might bring, especially as he had two of the Captain's recruits with him, their polished lamellar armour telling the tale of them being men of violence above what the serfs could normally accomplish.

The crowd included not only most of the serfs, but at the outer edges were younger brothers, wives, older children and other relatives. All in all a crowd of several hundred.

Peasants were usually conservative and loathed change, especially something that they knew worked. So he would have to work hard to get them to accept his proposal. Time for a speech. Time to bring all those lessons in rhetorics to use._ Ethos, pathos_ and _logos_. One of the recruits introduced him before he began. People that had people introduce them were important, here and at home.

"Free men of Westeros!" he started. Everyone hated slavery here, so it was a safe start, and he even got a cheer or two from that. Excellent.

"I wish to speak to you. With you. But first, I think it is time you for once had a chance to enjoy the fruits of your labour." with those words one of the recruits rolled forwards a barrel from their Lord's estate. It had not been that expensive – it would normally require a few more years on bottles before becoming a very good vintage, but to these people, it was a luxury they rarely experienced. Sure, they probably stole some of the harvest and fermented raw wine themselves, but barrel-aged, from their Lord? The barrel was raised on the square, the lid opened and as through a miracle the serfs produced clay cups or bowls seemingly from nowhere to have their taste of unwatered fine wine. They seemed to like it, because it did not stop until the barrel was as dry as the soil before the autumn rains.

That put them in a good mood, weakened their judgement just a bit, and probably made them view him favourably. For a very low cost.

"I am from a land far away from here. But we are a people who know our wine. And know how hard labour it is to produce it." establish your _ethos_. I am the right man to talk to you about this. He got a few 'yeah' from the crowd, smiled and continued.

"I also know how to make wine better. More expensive, and how to make people pay well for it." this would not aid them. Not right now. But it still established his _ethos_. They were willing to bear with him, not the least because of the wine. Many were a bit tipsy by now.

"I know times can be hard. Summer is here now, and for many, it is the time of plenty. I know that for you, it means a lot of hard work for your Lord." more agreement from the crowd. Everyone considered their lot hard. Agreeing with them was proper pathos. He spoke to their feelings.

"I know that today, you are granted the usage of your land plots in exchange for three days a week of corvee labour on your Lord's estate." this was simple facts that no-one could disagree with. A simple arrangement that worked for both sides. Supposedly.

"I will make a suggestion for a different arrangement." he held up a hand to silence some of the more vocal serfs who wanted to protest immediately. "Please, I ask of you, free men of Westeros, to hear out a free man of Karastovel. Should you not like the new arrangement, you will of course, as free men, be free to decline it." this worked. They liked to consider themselves free.

"I suggest that you keep your land plots, but I do away with corvee labour. Completely." he said. This was excellent _logos_. No-one denied that this was an excellent deal. So there had to be a catch, right? He had them now. They were listening intensively.

"Instead, I suggest that you get one fifth of the wine harvest, to share amongst you. You will know who worked hard, and who deserve their fair share of it. Work hard, bring in a fine harvest, and you can sell your share to me, drink it yourself or sell it at the local market, as you please." they seemed excited about this. Excellent.

"Will you be willing to do this, for me, for a free man like you?" the assent was brought forward with massive cheering. They would work much harder, and above all much better. Some would probably spend more than three days a week on the estate, others would simply work harder when they were there and get more done. Leisure laziness, lounging around and pilfering of the harvest would be reduced to a minimum when there were real coin and with them real luxuries to be had - or for the smarter peasants, investments in tools such as iron-tipped spades, iron-tipped plows, perhaps an ox or a horse to share to pull the plow, the tresher or the mill. Before the peasants had pilfered, but could not sell what they had stolen to any larger extent, lest someone discover that they stole of their Lord's harvest, so they had mostly eaten the grapes (or made raisins for the next winter) or drank the raw wine.

Of course, he had investments lined up with the merchants that attended the local market and with the local inn the next village over. And his newly set up portable wagon-carried smithy and carpentry shop would make a stop at the village a suitable time after the harvest, offering tools for the more future-minded to invest in. He would give them coin, and take them right back. And they would be happy and more productive. He had a hard time concealing his evil grin as he shook hands with the village elder and several of the serfs wanting to thank him for the offer.

He knew from his calculations and experience that the harvest would be about 180 barrels. 36 for the peasants, 110 for the Lord, going above and beyond what he had originally promised would make him happy about the arrangement and not asking any questions, leaving 34 for himself. For almost no work at all. After the first harvest or so, he would be respectable enough to compete for tax farming contracts elsewhere. Oh, how he loved passive income! He could see gold coins being poured, clinking into a chest for his inner eye, and himself sitting next to it lazily drinking a glass of fine white wine.

However, back in King's Landing, he realised that not everything he touched turned to gold. In this case the financial loss was not that bad, but his enemies laughed themselves hare-lipped over it.

He had purchased a number of large earthenware vats and paid fishermen to bring him salt water and small fish to make proper fish sauce as the country completely lacked this essential flavour-improver, Leaving the vats with a mix of salt water and small fish in the sun caused the fish to ferment – of course, that did not smell too well, but considering the city's normal stench from the lack of sewers and the tanners' guild, he had not expected the reaction he had gotten. They had to move the vats several times, and by the time the fermentation was complete and baskets had been pressed down into the vats and the salty fermented fish-water bottled, no-one wanted to buy. These _barbaros_ did not understand proper cuisine and the bottles sat idle save for some used by himself, the Captain and his recruits, and a very select few used in the kitchens of his opium dens, inns and brothels, where people praised the salty piquant taste when they did not know what had been stirred into the stew.

And now he was_ Equites_ Fishrotter to all that disliked him. Damn them and their lack of proper refinement and tastes!


	9. Chapter 9

**King's Landing, 288 AL.**

**Sandor.**

_"War cries, shieldbanging, chanting, taunting, elaborate armour and tabards. None scare the enemy, they are all to instill bravery in the heart of your own. Nothing scares an enemy as silent, naked, swift effectiveness in battle." Condottieri Sergeant Sandor Clegane._

He was still not sure what to think of the Captain. He hated him for the episode in the storage room, where the man had forced him to face fire again and again, until he could control his fear. And he was ashamed of the panicked attempts at getting out he had suffered. And how seeminly easily the Captain had tripped him and continued the treatment. He still disliked fire. If he was honest, it still scared him stiff. But I forced that ice-cold feeling down into the pit of hatred deep in his belly and like a dead commanded alive by the sorcerers of old did what he had to do.

And it worked. Well enough, he supposed.

He hated the Captain for many more things, too. The constant slappings, beatings, hittings with the rod or the Captain's wooden sword when you did not move fast enough, or if you, the Seven forgive you, questioned an order. If you asked politely, and there was time, you could get en explanation, before or after the order was carried out. But you never questioned the order. And to the Seven Hells with you if you became insubordinate, or tried fighting back. Then you had to run the gauntlet. The Captain viewed such actions not as a crime against himself or his absent 'Kaisar', but rather as a disgrace for the entire unit, and the guilty man was stripped down to his breeches and the other men lined up with wicker rods facing each other. Then you had to run down between the two lines of men, while they beat you as much as they could, as many times as the Captain saw fit according to the offender's crime.

But the Captain was also like a father to them. A strict, and at times violent father, but his care was also evident. He made sure that they had three hot and two cold meals per day, that they got the best equipment money could buy – well, that was not strictly true. Sandor had worn plate armour which was better, but this lamellar armour they wore was almost as good. Consisting of small steel plates with holes it was laid so that each plate overlapped the other and strung together with strong leather straps. The result was an excellent piece of armour, stiff enough to allow good weight distribution and much, much cheaper and easier to repair or adapt to someone of different size. He had seen the Captain dissolve a breast- and backplate and assemble it again in mere minutes. And then he had to learn to do it himself.

Their beds were simple, but comfortable and surprisingly lice-free - all the laundry they did probably had something to do with it. Their weapons were first-class steel from the Street of Steel, their clothes simple, but comfortable and high-quality wool. And the pay was excellent and doled out at the same time every week.

'An army marches more than it fights.' the Captain said over and over again. 'The faster army stands on the hill. The faster army has water, food, a path of retreat – or stands between the enemy and his home.' It made sense, of course. But evidently, it meant that Sandor Clegane the warrior, the son of a landed knight, had to learn to do laundry. Cook. Clean. Pitch a tent and take it down again. A hundred times. 'We will have no time for camp followers!' the Captain had exclaimed when a recruit questioned these things.

The Captain make sure there was no bullying among the recruits. 'You are all equally worthless!' he exlaimed, and beat the offender black and blue. He joined them for their daily baths in hot water, sharing stories of battles and campaigns from his homeland and places he had served as a sellsword, fighting mythical creatures such as one that could shroud itself in inpenetratable darkness. Sandor believed some of them to be pure shit, but others held important lessons and interesting information. He had told about his scars. A nomad sabre, some kind of cousins to the Dothraki if he understood it correctly, when the unit the Captain served in as a Sergeant could not hold a spear-cirkle called a 'schiltrom' together. He had spent two days playing dead while the nomands celebrated their victory and then walked back over the steppe.

The Captain listened to their complaints – most often he disregarded them with a short and gruff comment, but he listened and took them seriously. He was always sure they could perform much more than they were themselves, and it seemed like he was always right. He instilled a sense of pride in their unit and themselves in them, praised them when it was merited, although not too much.

The food was good – the Captain taught them, and soon they could all make quite tasty stews and soups. They had meat or fish at least once a day, freshly baked bread and wine watered down so much that it was hardly wine anymore. 'A soldier has wine only to purify is water. You can get drunk on your time off.' Which Sandor did, of course. And the Captain seemed to enjoy forcing him to puke his guts out the day after during the run. After a while he learned to temperate his drinking - the punishment the day after was simply too exhausting to be worth it.

Oh, those runs. Damn those runs. In full armour and pack, with all the equipment needed for a campaign, they ran. It was not a mad dash, just a forced march too quick to walk. A shuffle that Sandor had tought leisure until they entered the second hour of it the first time. He had stood on the training field for hours, but that was never the constant motion this was. He had puked after about two hours, with the Captain laughing at that, and collapsed after about four, but to be honest, the last hour had then more been staggering than running.

'When I am done with you, recruit Clegane, you will run two leagues in full equipment and armour in less than an hour. And you will be bale to run for twelve hours straight!'

He had looked at the man like he was mad. But he had talked to the other recruits – oh yes, he was a recruit now, that must mean he passed the initial test – and they had confirmed that the Captain himself could run for THREE DAYS STRAIGHT, only slowing the pace temporarily to eat, drink, take a shit or piss.

'A soldier can run longer than any horse!' the Captain had said. And he started to suspect it was so. And he could run two leagues in an hour now, with the about 80 pounds of armour, weapons and equipment. And about six hours before he collapsed.

He felt stronger. Drinking less wine made him more alert, and the daily running, cleaning, washing, cooking, eating, training and then fortification work made a routine he found himself settling confortably into. Discipline suited him, having a purpose suited him, and controlling his fear and hatred made him feel stronger. He hated the Captain, but he also respected him.


	10. Chapter 10

**King's Landing, 288 AL.**

**Lysander.**

_"If you want someone to take a decision in your favour, make them think it is their idea, or at least, offer them a way to save face. It will make it much easier for them, and have them resent you less." Equites_ Lysander Asimachos.

_Equites_ Lysander Asimachos.

Commander of the Goldcloaks Janos Slynt had been punctual, arriving with the escort of two burly goldcloaks. He had bowed, being respecful, complimenting the Commander during the lavish dinner he served. The main course food had been simple, courtesy of the Captain's Condottieri's cooking - hearthy, filling and tasty, but simple. He had server the best wines money could buy, a nice dessert of finely baked pastries and confectionary as sweet as Massenian cane sugar as well as chilled candied fruit though. And the Commander had eaten to his heart's desire, which proved to be as much as his belly could take without bursting.

"Are you sure I cannot tempt you with another piece of sweetened fruit, Commander Slynt?" he said with a broad smile, keeping the friendly facade, wondering when they would get down to business.

"Thankyou, _Equites_, but I am…" the Commander burped involuntarily. "Excuse me, quite full." the man said with a smile back. So he just refilled the Commander's wine cup with fine Dornish red, unwatered of course, for such a plebeian, almost to the brim, still smiling.

"Well, with the pleasantries properly cared for, I am sure you came here for a reason beyond our hospitality, Commander Slynt." he said to the red-faced Commander. He did not take too well to unwatered wine, it seemed. Uncultured barbarian - even more than most people in this Sebastokrator-forsaken place.

"Yes." the Commander said and stroked the chin. "You have made quite the impression in King's Landing since your arrival. _Equites_."

He smiled at that. "I am glad to hear that, Commander." he lied smoothly. It had been much better to have gone unnoticed. But making a lot of money quickly usually made that hard. Very well, it was not like he had not expected this to happen sooner or later.

"That said, as the Commander of the Goldcloaks, I'd like to ask for some support. After all, your business benefits from our hard work to keep the streets safe and sound." the Commander said. Ah, there it was. Time to feign some ignorance.

"We are of course very grateful for the tireless work of the city watch." he said with a smile. "But I am uncertain how directly we benefit?" he made a gesture towards the floor below them, where the Condottieri was entertaining the Commander's two Goldcloaks. They did have their own security, after all. Quite a lot of it, in fact.

"Oh." the Commander said, his mile turning just a bit forced rather than friendly. "We make sure no… accidents happen. But you know, funding is always hard. With a little help, we can make sure your business stays free of sabotage and other problems." he said, his smile now rather cold and telling of what might happen should the _Equites_ not pay. How direct.

"I see." he said, rose from the table, wine cup still in hand, stretched his almost seven feet and nodded with a friendly smile. "Give me a moment, I think I have something right here." the Commander nodded as he stepped over to his desk and took a stack of parchments to study.

"Ah, yes. Here it is." he said. "I realise your Goldcloaks must be in dire straits."

The Commander smiled. To him this was going even better than expected. It was so nice when people were cooperative for once.

"After all, selling fifty breastplates on the Street of Steel last month alone, and thirty swords and two hundred spearpoints three months ago!" he said, watching the Commander suddenly go stiff and his smile melt away to be replaced with a stiff scowl. "Just what are you talking about, Equites?" he growled.

He smiled, a predatory smile. He just could not help himself. "The situation must be disastrous when you have to sell your arms and armour! I am sure we can help you out. After all, favours and returned favours, right?"

"Right." the Commander said stiffly. "When can we expect payment?" Not one to beat around the bush, eh?

"Oh, I have another arrengement in mind, Commander Slynt. You obviously need new equipment. I have some very good contacts at the Street of Steel and I am sure I can get you new equipment at quite the discounted price." he insisted with a broad smile.

The Commander's jaw muscles were working as he ground his teeth. "Very well." he finally said, rose and briefly shook the _Equites_' hand and then stepped down the stairs, or rather stomped, singalling to the two Goldcloaks to follow him. The Captain and two of his Condottieri were casually leaning against a wall with smiling faces.

It was not until they had stepped outside that he noticed that both men were as pale as the bleached silk shirts that the high-born liked to wear under their tunics and that there was a certain… smell around one of them.

"Have you pissed yourself?" he exclaimed, to a mumbled and inaduble response.

This had been a disaster. Whatever would he do now?

His anger returned in double strength once he realised he got the very same equipment he had sold on the Street of Steel from the _Equites_ – just that his 'discount' prices were twice what he had made in the first place!


	11. Chapter 11

**King's Landing, 288 AL.**

**Alexios.**

_"You cannot make a veteran out of a recruit - only battle can do that. But you can come close enough."_ Captain Alexios Andreios.

Captain Alexios Andreios.

The _Equites_ had expected some kind of attack to come within a few days, and he was right. At night two masked men had attempted to set one of the opium dens on fire. They had looked very surprised when he had thrown a bucket of water on them and their attempt at setting a fire. They had looked even more surprised when he had gutted both of them. They were most likely disguised Goldcloaks, but he did not recognise them and could not prove it anyway. Normally he would offer dead enemies a burial at depth enough to avoid having the bodies be eaten by wild animals - outside battle you could usually afford to be honourable. Treat prisoners with respect and the dead with honour and you would have an easier time in general. Recruits did seldom flock to vicous units, and enemies did not surrender to those that killed prisoners for no reason.

That said, it was time to set an example and send a message, so despite not liking it, he had to violate the bodies of the two Goldcloaks and failed arsonists. He cut off their members and stuck them in their mouths, pulled out their guts and wrapped them around their necks and pulled out their eyes to put them in the cavity where their guts had been. Then both men were wrapped up in their dark cloaks and had their hats put on their heads again and placed sitting, like they were sleeping, leaning on the wall next to the closest Goldcloak barracks.

Then he went back to the residence for a bath and to clean his by now blood-soaked armour.

The next day he dressed up in the parade outfit - fine white silk short trousers ending at the knee, a well-coloured crimson red silk cloak (that also reached to the knee) and polished his armour to a shine before he marched off and delivered a letter to Commander Slynt personally. The _Equites_ had told him of the contents.

_"To the most esteemed Commander of the Goldcloaks, Janos Slynt._

_My dearest Commander. I regret to inform you that we suffered an attempted arson at one of our businesses last night. Fortunately, Captain Andreios was present and could throw a bucket of water over both the arsonists and their attempted arson. Unrelated, but still symptomatic, we have heard of two brutal murders close to one of your barracks. I suppose that should anything like this happen again, I would have to leverage my influence to help you by requesting audience with the Lord the Eyrie and Warden of the East Jon Arryn, the Hand of the King, and show him the documentation I have collected on your dire situation. I am sure he, despite being a busy man, would find time to rectify the situation._

_With respectful regards,_  
Equites_ Lysander Asimachos"_

It was mostly a bluff, of course. The Lord the Eyrie and Warden of the East Jon Arryn of the Vale, Hand of the King, did not have time for lowly matters such as the Goldcloaks and their corruption - otherwise he would certainly have dealt with the problem already. The Captain understood the Lord had spent quite some time in the southern lands of Dorne, brokering a peace between Prince Doran Martell and King Robert Baratheon and was probably insanely busy, running the realm. However, he also suspected the combination of the very real threat the bodies represented and the potential of exposing the corruption would silence Commander Janos Slynt and have him accept buying back his own equipment and double prices.

He had deliverd the letter to a fuming but silent Commander, smiling with his stiff scars turning it into a grimace and observing all possible friendly and polite manners. With this mission done, he returned to the house, changed to a field dress and went outside the city at a brisk pace, to a field they rented from its local Crownlander Lord for training. He found Ser Barristan Selmy there, watching his men train. When the older knight had turned up and politely asked to watch the training he had initially thought the man had changed his mind regarding the offer at the feast after the tournament, but that had not been the case.

The old knight was simply curious. And inquisitive. The Captain had not expected a man so mired in the ways of war of his people and so honoured for his performance in it to be interested, but the older knight usually turned up once or twice per week, on his time off from guarding the King and his family.

"Captain Andreios." the older knight said and bowed. He bowed in return. "Ser Barristan. Here to see my recruits?"

"Indeed." the older knight said with a smile. "The King himself has asked me to tell him of your way of fighting."

Oh. So that was the case? "So that is why you are here, Ser?" he said with a smile that stretched the stiff scars.

"No, I got that order today after telling about last week. My original purpose was and is curiosity." he said. And as he said it, about three dozen men came running along the path from the forest. Red-faced in the summer heat, weighed down with heavy lamellar armour, swordspears, heavy oval shields of thick oak, with javelins, shortswords and daggers.

"You have your men running a lot." the older knight said and the Captain nodded.

"A man can run for a longer time than a horse, since he can sweat, drink and eat while running." the Captain said. "If properly trained, that is."

"You are saying you have your troops run for a full day?" the knight said with a less than convinced face.

"Three if needed." the Captain answered with a hoarse and short laugh to the knights surprise. "Fighting is short. You have been to war, Ser Barristan. You know that an army marches for a year to fight for a few hours."

"That is true." the older knight said. "So you train your men to march more than to fight?"

"Oh, I train them to fight too. But the army that can move while the enemy must rest can outflank, surround or at least place itself between an enemy an his line of supply."

At the field, the recruits lined up with shields in two lines two ranks deep each to attempt to push each other over, while not losing formation. The plowed but unsowed field was muddy and uneven, and men fell over, to be hit by shields on the back of their head. But the formation usually kept together, especially as the rear rank made sure to grip the breatbelt of the man in front of them, keeping him on his feet, or at least from falling over, being pushed too far back or yanked out of the line by the opposing line.

"These belts seem to help in keeping formation." the older knight commented.

"That is what they are for. Well, that and keeping the lamellar curiass together." he said with a smile. "Recrurt Clegane! No flanking, keep the man in front you on his feet!" he yelled with his dark barytone making the older knight next to him flinch a bit at the unexpected tone and volume. The large man in the rear rank immediately obeyed. "Individual skill matters little in war." he could tell that the older knight did not like to hear it, but pressed on. "It is the unit with the better formation and ability to keep it that will shatter the other unit. And then the killing starts, when one side is running." he nodded.

The older knight nodded as well, reluctantly. He could see the point, but would like to argue against it. But he was here because he wanted to see the Captain's way of war, not convince him of the opposite, so he kept his silence on that matter.

The pushing went on for a while, with the occasional yelled comment or order from the Captain, until one side broke as several men were pushed over and the rest surrounded and beaten down. The men sat down in the field, panting, sweating, sharing water mixed with wine with one part wine and ten parts water and small pieces of bread and cured sausages.

"Time for the baptising." the Captain said with a wolfish grin made worse by the stiff scars. Some of the recruits who had been in service a bit longer than the others grimaced horribly, while the rest looked surprised. The Captain walked over to a canvas-covered wooden feeding tray and pulled the canvas away to reveal that the large tray was filled with what the old knight realised was pig's blood and guts in a repulsive mix with a massive swarm of buzzing flies above it in the heat of the summer day.

"Every man submerges himself." the Captain said and patted an armoured fist against an equally armoured palm of his other hand to insinuate the consequences of disobedience.

"But... Why?" the older knight said with a repulsed face, holding a handkerchief against his nose to protect himself against the worst smell as several recruits vomited uncontrollably, in and outside the feeding tray as they had to submerge themselves in the revolting mix.

"It won't make veterans of them. But it will toughen them." the Captain answered.

"Toughen them towards bathing in pig guts?" Ser Barristan said.

"Remember your first kill, Ser Barristan?" the Captain replied.

"Yes. He was a Tyroshi. I pierced him with a lance." the older knight said.

"Was it hard?" the Captain continued.

"Yes. I froze at the sight of his blood." Ser Barristan grimaced at that memory.

"The second was easier, I assume." the Captain said. "And the third one after that?"

"Yes." was the short reply.

"A veteran can stomach the blood and digusting smell of the battlefield. A recruit may puke, get the shakes, freeze up or even panic."

"True." the knight replied.

"This..." the Captain said and gestured towards the disgusting mix the recruits had to submerge themselves in. "...does not make them veterans. But it lessens the risk of them not being able to hold formation in their first battle. If they cannot do this, they should not be soldiers."

The older knight was silent for a long time and put away his handkerchief. "I think I understand." he said, reluctantly.


	12. Chapter 12

**King's Landing, 289 AL.**

**Alexios.**

_"Every man seeks a stable and certain position. If he thinks he is safe, he will remain there. If you want to force an enemy into a position, harass him until he moves there, then stop."_ Captain Alexios Andreios.

Some time had passed since they had arrived in these 'Seven Kingdoms'. Almost two years, at least. He had learned that the seasons here could last years, and no-one could be certain how long they would last. He would have to introduce snow shoes training for the soldiers once they hit a multi-year winter, he supposed. He had learned that practice when serving as a pikeman among the highlanders of Margauth.

He had found the _Equites_ quite drunk. A few empty bottles of what he assumed had been fine white wine littered the table. That happened from time to time, but it was a long time since he had seen him like this, barely able to sit in a chair. He supposed the activity, all the coin there for the grabbing, had kept the thin man busy and thus the wine less than necessary. Their master, _Kaisar_ Leonides, was the same. Really, he himself was the odd man out, not drinking anything fermented or distilled at all. The Karastovlians were a nation of drunkards.

"_Equites_." he greeted the drunk man with a polite bow.

"Captain." the _Equites_ replied, slurring only slightly despite having difficulties focusing on the broad man in front of him.

"What news?" the Captain asked and helped himself to a glass of water from the pitcher at the _Equites_' table.

"Well…" the nobleman said, raising a hand and counting on the long, dexterious fingers. "The Maesters of Oldtown know little of magic, and the sentiment I get is that they like it that way. They're like the natural philosophers of the Imperial Academy."

The Captain nodded and remained silent. There was a rant coming, and he knew better than to interrupt it.

"They say magic has gone from this land, that it might return one day, they have some kind of glass candles they can light with magic but can't be lighted now." he scowled and snapped his fingers several times. The Captain watched the action closely, and nodded gravely.

"How are you… With that…?" the _Equites_ said and suddenly managed to focus on the Captain.

"Well under control." he replied. They watched each other for a while, but nothing more was said.

"I have written the so-called 'faceless' men of Braavos, but the reply simply said 'a man does not reply' on my inquiries on magic." the_ Equites_ looked around for his glass, finding it and a last sip of by now lukewarm wine and swallowed it down before he continued.

"The Warlocks of Quarth wanted a lot of money for very little information." he exhaled forcefully from the nose in contempt, despite the fact that he could respect those that sold information. It should never be given freely unless you benefitted from it.

"And the bottom line?" the Captain said and gulped his water down.

"The bottom line, my dear Captain, is that few seem to know much about magic, and none of those seem to know anything about teleportation or moving between worlds." the Equites raised his empty glass in a sardonic toast for the world they had ended up in.

"So we are stuck?" he said.

"For the foreseeable future." the _Equites_ replied.

He nodded. "I'll take the night off. I need to find me a proper man." he said.

"Before you go, I have a small gift for you, Captain." the _Equites_ said with a smile. And rose unsteadily to fumble among several stacks of paper on shelf before finding a leather-encased box. Then he lovingly tidied the stacks of papers, placing a hand on two taller stacks for a while and sighing.

He took the box and watched the tall man. "Letters?" he asked.

"For _Kaisar_. Reports." the Equites replied, putting his hand on the smaller of the stacks.

"For Beatrix. And for Giorgios." the soft touch on the taller two stacks spoke of love. And of lamentation. Considering the height, the man must have written a letter every two or three days.

"You miss them?" he asked, knowing the answer to the question.

"What kind of man does not miss his children?" the _Equites_ replied.

Many men, he tought, but said nothing. Instead he opened the leather case he had recieved and picked out the cylinder-shaped object, turning it over in his hand.

"They call it a 'Myrish spyglass'. It fetches a pretty_ nummi._" the _Equites_ said, his back turned and his hand still on the two stacks of paper on the shelf.

He turned it over in his hands and extended it. The craftmanship was excellent.

"It uses cleverly shaped glass to bring things closer." the Equites said. So he tried it and almost jumped at the clarity of the image. Craftmanship indeed!

"This could help quite a bit." he said with a smile that the stiff scars turned predatory.

"I thought you would like it. Now, I'd like to be left alone. Tell Tomas to bring me another bottle on your way out." the nobleman said. "Tonight, I drink. Tomorrow, we start a bank."

"Very well, _Equites_." he replied with a short bow, that the tall man answered with a staggering attempt at a court-level bow of his own. Then he turned and left. that the tall man answered with a staggering attempt at a court-level bow of his own. Then he turned and left.


	13. Chapter 13

**Sunspear, 291 AL.**

**Lysander.**

_"Most people confuse good manners with good intentions. Use it to your advantage." Equites_ Lysander Asimachos.

His head throbbed quite a lot and the clear summer sunlight through the window seemed to taunt him. But such was the tribute to pay to the God of wine the day after.

There was no Karastovlian who had not known a bad day after, and the worst was cured by fried smoked pork with fish sauce and fried oat porridge, a glass of wine, a pitcher of water and a lot of hard work.

The bank had started out small, of course. A few exchange offices in the larger cities, giving travellers the ability to exchange foreign coin for Westerosi, and the other way around, making sure you got good coin, unshaved and unforged. Fortunately, it seemed like the Seven Kingdoms had never debased its currency. Perhaps it was simply that the King lacked the power to do so.

The banks then became reliable institutions where you could store your money for a small fee and that could facilitate large transactions between sellers and buyers of expensive goods. It expanded into traveller's banks, allowing people to deposit a sum of money in Oldtown and withdraw it in King's Landing, or the other way around, reducing the risk and effort required in travelling with large sums. After two years, they started to lend money. Initially, there were small sums – and always with extensive collateral. Siezure of property happened every now and then, until the debtors learned the lmits. They never lent money to someone with power enough to do something about property being seized. Merchants, lower nobility wating to invest in their properties, skilled craftsmen and tradesmen, shipowners and so on were the beneficiares. Ironically, a few of the farmers he had started tax farming with loaned money with the next years' harvest as collateral, to buy a horse and an iron plow as well as to buy some marshland and use dikes to drain it. Coin was moving around in the Seven Kingdoms, and he had his fingers in almost every transaction, making a profit from all of it. Always giving with one hand, taking with the other.

He had worried that his bank would draw hostile attention from the Lords Paramount or Wardens, the King or the Hand of the King, but in a stroke of luck, the Ironborn of the Iron Isles, under their Lord Reaper of Pyke, Balon Greyjoy, decided to revert to old raider ways and revolt against the throne. The lunatic had named himself 'King of Salt and Rock' - that was fighting words in a feudal world. Not paying the tribute, not coming to pay homage or simply ignoring royal commands could be 'forgotten' or temporarily ignored by the throne, but someone delcaring himself the equal rather than the subject of the King? An invasion was coming.

He had shook his head at the folly of it. House Redwyne had a substantial fleet, the Royal Fleet was large and strong as the King spent lavishly on it, probably becuase his own brother, Prince Stannis Baratheon were in command - and the man was if not a genius, at least competent and diligent. House Lannister also commanded a smaller but still sizable fleet. The whole thing was decided before it even began, as the Ironborn did nothing to destabilise the Seven Kingdoms before launching their attacks, thinking they could control the seas and then raid at will. Fools.

In what the locals called 291 years after Aegon's landing, he uncorked a fine bottle of wine and toasted with the Captain -. who drank water as usual – to their first million gold dragons.

"_Kaisar_ would be proud." the Captain said.

"He would indeed. We'll see if we can bring any of it with us, should we find a way to get back." he replied. He doubted that they would get back, but what could they do, but work and hope for something to come along their way? If it did, he'd make sure they had the money and the power to seize it.

The Captain shrugged under his large lamellar shoulder protectors and drank his water. Probably content. Routine and discipline, and the steady flow of silver to pay, feed and equip the men the Captain trained was enough for the simple-mined man. No family to miss. No friends to lament, Build a new unit of new men, and the man was like fish in the water. He had loads of envy for that.

"We need to expand outside of King's Landing and the Crownlands. It is also time to start networking a bit. Get more contacts beyond petty nobility and rich merchants." he said.

"If you say so." the Captain said, deffering such things to him as usual.

"This is a feudal realm where the powerful landowners owe military service to their liege. Meaning that they always have the means to revolt any time they like. It will collapse in civil war one way or the other sooner or later. If it does while we are here, we need to have hedged our bets." he continued.

The Captain nodded in agreement. He knew the _Equites_ liked to have a first, second, third, fourth, fifth and so on plan, and to invest in all possiblem likely and unlikely venues. If you bet on all horses, you would always win.

But investing in other parts would require good relations with and the approval of the various Lords Paramount and Wardens. It was indeed time to travel and to make friends. Their organisation had grown large and largely self-sustained. Tomas and his assistants could handle daily business, Sergeant Clegane could handle security well enough. The Goldcloaks had been… discouraged from any further attacks and Commander Slynt reminded that the prices on his own armour and equipment might rise if more 'accidents' happened.

"We'll take an escort of 40 of your best men, Captain." he said to the Captain who grunted his approval.

He had sent out letters to business contacts, asking for letters of introduction to some of the more powerful Houses of the Seven Kingdoms. The first invitation was to the court of the Princedom of Dorne – it came surprisingly easy. Perhaps too easy. Prince Doran Martell extended a cordial invite to visit Sunspear.

The trip also proved to be easier than the Equites was really comfortable with. If things went too well, it usually meant that there was some kind of ambush in store. Someone was trying to make it easy for him to take the path laid out for him. Bu the could not see how this trap was constructed, so he marched on. At least he had the Captain and his 40 men with him should anything go wrong. And plenty of gold for a ransom. It was time to walk into the vipers' nest and brave whatever might come.

However, so far, the only thing they had to brave was excellent hospitality. They had been shown lavish rooms, served salt and bread and then fresh fruits, dates and excellent wine (which the Captain politely but firmly excused himself from, to some raised eyebrows) before being ushered into an audience with the Prince himself, Doran Martell.

On their way, they passed pools and baths of fresh water, with fountains and plenty of happy, playing children. He could not hide a wide smile at the scene. At last he had found some civilisation in these Seven Kingdoms!

The Prince was seated in front of one of the pools on a wooden chair, with a few household guards behind him, a strongly build man who could only be his brother, Prince Oberyn Martell next to him, watching the play of several young children in the water. A young girl, chased by another, ran headlong into the long leg of the _Equites_, bouncing off and dropping to the stone floor. She looked confused, and then started bawling. He bent over, picked her to her feet and smiled, dropping to a squat

"Oh, but aren't you a strong girl? Especially when your father is watching and recieving important guests?" he said. Patting her head. Confused she looked up at him, but at least stopped bawling, only sniffling a little.

"You are very tall." she said.

"I am. And if you obey your father, eat your vegetables and run every day, you might become almost as tall." he said with a smile and offered a small treat, a piece of vanilla cake, which she eagerly consumed.

"My Princes." he greeted the two men who had watched the scene closely. My apologies, it seems like the beatiful women of your court have a way to distract me." he said with a elegant bow towards the two men. "I suppose I just met the young Obara?" he continued, with a look towards the standing man.

"Nymeria, actually." Oberyn Martell replied with a smile and returned the bow. "You seem to have a good hand with children." he gestured towards the playing children, who shylily (except for the oldest, which was the Obara he had asked about before) lined up to greet the visitor, while he kissed the hand of each and every one of them in turn.

"It is my one weakness, my Princes." he said with a smile, which seemed to be honestly returned by both men.

"Forgive me if I breach protocol, my Princes. It is the tradition in my homeland to bring gifts when you are generously invited somewhere." He gestured to some of the Captain's Condottieri, who approached with a long bundle covered in a crimson cloth.

"I hope you can accept our humble gifts." he said. "For your esteemed self, Prince Doran Martell, we offer scented soap of the finest quality, with oil of whale and ambergris." a set of four thick bars was handed over to a servant on a thin silver platter and brought to the Prince – the perfume could be smelled weakly in the air as the servant passed, and the Prince picked one up and sniffed it.

"A fine gift." he said with a smile.

"For you, Prince Oberyn Martell." he uncovered a fine example of the type of swordspear the Captain's Condottieri liked to use, which the Prince had been eyeing from time to time since they arrived. A servant brought this to the Prince, and he gripped it, felt the weight and balance and made a swing.

"Interesting. Thank you, Equites."

He smiled, and then stepped forward with his hands behind his back.

"And for you girls, this!" he withdrew his hands and revealed small wooden training versions of the same spear that had been given their father. "So that you may train and become strong like your father." the girls looked to their father, who nodded, and then accepted the gifts with squeals of delight. They were soon embroiled in fighting each other, and Prince Oberyn Martell had to excuse himself to make sure no-one got too hurt in the enthusiasm.

The Captain marched off to discuss the spear and its usage with Prince Oberyn Martell and they were thus left alone, apart from servants and guards, of course. But they were both men of such standing that they had learned to ignore their presence. They made small talk, had a cup of wine and some refreshment and discussed the situation in King's Landing before getting serious.

"May i ask you, Equites, what is your opintion on the murder of children?" Prince Doran Martell asked. Ah. He had expected to get that question in one form or another sooner or later. The Martell's wanted to know what he thought of the murder of their sister and her children.

They both glanced towards the children who where now practising fighting in the water of one of the pools.

"My Prince." he began. "There are people, who should have been strangled in their cradle." he continued, shaking his head. The Prince on his chair raised an eyebrow.

"However, we cannot judge children for their parents' crimes, and we cannot kill anyone on crimes they might commit in the future. They cannot be held responsible for who they were born to. Anyone killing children is a despicable coward." he said, with some heat added into the tone. "Where I come from, they used to blind children of overthrown rulers. At times they were castrated, but that was a thousand years ago, and such barbaric traditions have long been abandoned. But killing them? Never."

That was not strictly true, of course. There had been infanticide in the annals of Karastovel. But he did not have to tell the Prince that.

"I see we are in agreement, Equites." the Prince said with a smile and called for more wine while wincing trying to change his position on the chair.

"My apologies, my Prince, but more wine?" he asked.

"The only thing that helps, I'm afraid." the Prince replied.

"Forgive my intrusiveness." he said. "My studies of medicine and healing at the Imperial Academy was short, but I understand you suffer from gout?"

"Unfortunately, _Equites_, yes, that is so." the Prince replied with a grimace.

"We learn that wine is not good for you when you suffer gout." he said.

The Prince snorted.

"And what do your medical knowledge say is good for you?" he said.

He was walking on thin ice here – the man was in pain and perhaps not in a good mood from the subject they had discussed earlier.

"Cherries, actually." he replied.

"Cherries?" the Prince said, with a tone of disregard.

"Yes. Cherries. Or, any fruit, berry or vegetable that is red or orange. And copious amounts of boiled water."

"And this helps?" the Prince said, his tone being more inquisitive now.

"So they say. No harm in trying I suppose, my Prince? Avoid or limit your consumtion of red meat, beans, peas, cured foods, cheese and small fish." he continued. "And no wine or other alcohol at all. And whenever you can, walk or exercise in any other way." he said.

"You just removed most of what makes life worth living." the Prince said sith a sour face.

"You don't need to stop completely. But lowering the amounts will help." he said. "Besides..." he smiled a bit. "...shall we call it_ the benefits of marriage_ is excellent exercise."

The Prince of Dorne smiled slightly, and with that, the subject turned into that of banking and tax farming in Dorne, both of which the Prince seemed catiously postive to.

The next day the Prince of Dorne sat drinking boiled water with some lemon juice in it, eating cherries, grapes and pieces of red apple when his brother walked into the open hall of the water gardens, wheel-legged like he had ridden a hundred leagues.

"Why are you walking like that, Oberyn? Did the Captain beat you that bad at training with that new toy of yours?" Doran asked.

"No, brother." Oberyn replied with a wide and disturbingly happy grin. "He's fast, but no duelist. It was rather something else he said that I had to try out this night. And I think he is right. At least partially." he smiled and winced a bit.

"No details, please." Doran said, while the Red Viper laughed.


End file.
